The Cost of Redemption
by Anti-Materiel Girl
Summary: An Evil FLW finds a conscience after buying Charon's contract, and struggles to atone for her previous bad behavior. Two first-person monologues, LW and Charon. Smuttiness, strong language, nihilism, and violence abound. Warning for strong masochistic tones. Rated M, of course. Part 1 of the Dark Hearts, Broken Souls series.
1. Fuck it All

I try to drink myself to sleep tonight. The whisky dulls the pain; fades the memories.

In the dark, we use each other. Desperate fumbling, sweaty sheets, liquor on our breath, stale cigarettes. We both have memories we want to forget. Sometimes he's rough, but not tonight.

Afterwards, he watches me out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't think I know, but I know. I can feel his eyes on me. Regardless of how comfortable we've gotten with each other's pain, it's still his job. That's what he's programmed to do.

I can't save him, and I can't save myself. I couldn't save Dad, either.

When I met Charon, he changed me. Everyone called me a monster – and I was. I stopped slaving because of him. Every time I tried to clap the slave collar on anyone, I saw his face. I couldn't do it...not having bought him like I did. Eulogy was pissed – his most productive "contractor" had retired, with no explanation. We were making caps hand over fist – him more than anybody else. I have enough to last me for a long time. I might never have to work again.

I changed my ways; found a conscience. So many lives ruined, by little ol' me. Tell your problems to the bottle, you heartless bitch.

Everyone in the wasteland knows who I am. I started doing good things for people, and word got around. The people – dirty, desperate – talk gratitude, but they look at me with hungry eyes. They all want a piece of me. They'll take and take and take until there's nothing left.

I know he feels helpless. There's nothing he can do to fix me. It must be hard for him – he loves me, or at least, he said he did. But everything's changed now. Nothing's clear. He tries to get me out of the suite, into the wasteland, thinking that if I shoot something, I'll feel better.

I do, but it doesn't last.

He doesn't drink as much as I do. He's had a long time to deal with his grief and regret. Besides, the things he did…he had no choice. I had choices, and I made the wrong ones. It was my life, and I fucked it up. I'll own that.

In the morning, we sit outside on the balcony in silence, smoking.

"Mallie..?" he asks. It's short for Maleficent. I remembered it from an old storybook from when I was a kid; an evil witch's name. I picked it on a whim, when I flipped Vault 101 the bird and ran after dad. Fuck that place – I'm glad I destroyed it. Amata will get what she deserves – begs me to save the vault, then tells me that I can't go back in….fuck that place, and fuck her too.

Fuck the world. I hope it all burns. Again.

He wants me again; I can feel it. I'll let him sit and stew for a while – it's better after I wind him up tighter than a two-cap watch. Maybe I'll order him to smack me around a bit before; make things interesting. That kind of thing always turned me on anyway. Freddie called me a sicko – the pussy never could muster up the courage to give me a good, solid, open-handed slap.

I glance over at Charon's hands. When I first told him to do it, he was hesitant. I had to call him names; piss him off. Angry fucks are the best; he didn't hold back. I walked bow-legged for a week. Now, he's more than willing to pop me one every now and then, when I request it – you'd be surprised what you could get used to, given time.

I light a new cigarette with the cherry of my old one; flick the old one over the balcony, and onto the courtyard below. I hope I hit that Wellington broad on the head with it; burn her hair off. She gives Charon the stink-eye whenever we go downstairs. It would serve her ass right, snooty bitch.

Still staring out into the distance, I say to him, "You want me?"

He replies, something that's somewhere between a moan and a growl.

"You gotta soften me up a little first." I toss the remainder of my cigarette over the railing. I turn as I get to my feet, and stride over to him, stopping at arms-length. "Just a couple." Just thinking about it makes me wet.

My orders to him tend to be short nowadays. A handful of words; a brief sentence. I imagine that after years of Ahzrukhal's constant inane chatter, he appreciates the brevity.

I meet his cloudy blue eyes, and give the command: "I'm yours."

WHACK! The back of his right hand connects with my right cheek – hard enough to sting. My head compensates a little, turning to the left. The pain is delicious.

WHACK! Open-handed, to the left cheek. I feel the heat gather in my groin. Ooooh, yes. Yes…

The fire inside me burns for him and threatens to consume me.

Effortlessly, he hauls me up by the collar and drags me bodily to the patio table, and savagely bends me back. He tears off my boots and leather pants, tossing them carelessly away. I hear him unbuckle and unzip, a rustle of clothing as his trousers fall to the floor.

Rudely, he pulls my shirt up, to get a look at my tits. He pinches my left nipple, causing me to buck in a violent wave of pain and pleasure. While I'm distracted, he thrusts up inside me, ferociously, like an animal. I yip in surprise, as he clamps his left hand on my mouth. I must be quiet – there are few taboos in the wasteland, but humans fucking ghouls is one of them. They can call me a ghoul fucker all they like, I don't care – but he says it's best that we don't push our luck. Besides, I get a thrill out of him clamping his rough hand over my mouth, muting me, dominating me. He likes to watch my eyes roll into the back of my head, likes to hear my muffled moans – only he can control me like this. In this brief moment, he's free, and I am his to command.

I wrap my legs around his muscled waist, drawing him closer, deeper. As he leans in, I claw at him like a wild cat, and he growls, pumping vigorously – he likes it when I fight a little. My body starts to writhe and buck against him. I stiffen; scream into his rough hand, my cunt squeezing his dick like a vise. An explosion of ecstasy; stars spread before my eyes, blackness at the edges of my vision, threatening to take me with it. My toes curl, my eyes roll back, and he comes – loosing a deep guttural cry, releasing himself inside me.

He takes his hand off my face. We're both panting, breathing heavily, slick with my sweat. Abruptly, he slides out of me, gives my fleshy hip a heavy slap, leaving a red handprint that will last for at least an hour. Marking me, like a possession – his very own smoothskin fucktoy. He lifts up his pants and buckles them. I stand, shirt still pushed up, and feel his wetness running down my leg, sticky.

"I'm taking a shower."

He grunts his assent.

I climb in the shower, and he towels himself off with a washrag in the sink.

When I climb out, he's dressed – full armor, shotgun holstered, waiting. "I thought you'd like to go shoot something." he says. I do. So I get dressed in my good combat armor, the shit I snatched off the body of some dead Talon Company fuck that got what he deserved – and we went downstairs. Heading north, we come upon a lone mole rat. As its head explodes, I think – how long can I live like this?

Which is worth more to me – misery or happiness? Right now, I don't know. Maybe tomorrow, I'll look into Charon's eyes, and see me like he sees me: Beautiful, proud, and redeemed.

I can drink, fuck, kill, and smoke until I figure it the fuck out; until I'm ready to put this mess behind me.

Fuck the world. I hope it all burns.


	2. Love and Loyalty

I can't fix her.

I don't know what to do, so I just follow her lead. She doesn't complain, so I must be doing something right.

She drinks too much, smokes too much, and eats too little. When I still had skin, I knew guys like this. They forgot who they were, or maybe, they became something else, something they couldn't understand. Sometimes they got better; sometimes they didn't.

When she came for me, she was an arrogant bitch. She needed a man with a gun; she didn't think twice about buying me – a slaver, I knew. Only a slaver would be that flippant about buying someone.

I hated her. I thought I'd be forced to send people to the same Hell I'm in – but I wasn't. I don't know what happened, but she stopped slaving after she bought my contract. Well, after she…got to know me. When she didn't take me with her, I knew what she was doing. The first few times, she came back with caps. Then, she started coming back empty-handed.

This morning, the way she looks over the balcony, into the distance, that thousand-yard stare – it makes me think of the first time we were…intimate.

It was months ago. We'd been traveling together for three weeks or so. We'd cleared out a nest of raiders, and as she finished searching their bodies for anything valuable, she sat on a picnic table bench, lit a cigarette and stared off into the distance, watching the sunset. I stood behind her – watching her, studying her. I savored the strands of raven-black hair falling out of a hastily-made bun; her left cheek, ruddy and windburnt; full lips, chapped. It's like the wasteland sucks the moisture right out of you.

She breaks the silence. "I know when a man wants me."

I stayed still; quiet.

"I'm not stupid, Charon."

I replied, "I didn't say you were."

"I can see it in your eyes, in how you shadow me in town. Like I'm yours, and I just don't know it yet."

I can't say anything. I can't lie to her.

"So," she said, "you gonna fuck me or not?" She drops her cigarette, grinds it into the ground with the ball of her foot.

I couldn't believe my ears. "Is that an order?"

"It's whatever you want it to be, big guy."

I took her right there, on that picnic table – a foolish thing to do, out in the open. She's a scratcher, a biter – but she pulled me closer; she liked to fight, and she liked it rough. I was more than happy to oblige. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a woman. Instinct took over – after I fought her pants off her, I flipped her over, pinned her squirming body to the rough wood, and entered her from behind, harder than I'd intended.

She screamed – whether in pain or passion, I still don't know. With her, I doubt those two could ever be separated.

It didn't take me long – she was tight, wet, and like I said before…it'd been a long time.

We stayed like that for a minute – both breathing hard, me softening inside her. I slipped out, buckled up my pants. She laid there, bent over the table, bare-assed. Slowly, she straightened, cleaned herself up with a rag, tossed it in the dirt.

As she buckled her own pants, she looked at me, a glint of light from the dying sun catching her eye. She smiled.

After that day, she changed.

No, that's not right. After that day – I changed her.

She began to do favors for people in the wasteland – not even for money, just to do them. She was trying to atone for the monster she'd been. She was trying to redeem herself, although, she wouldn't admit it. I loved her for it, and once, on impulse, told her so.

"Mallie…?" I feel myself getting hard, wanting her again. I had her last night – it was gentle and tender, kisses and sweet nothings, dulled by alcohol. It wouldn't be like that today. She was angry at herself, angry at the world. Maybe even angry at me for staying.

"You want me?" she says, still staring out into the distance. I can't hold back the rumble in my throat.

"You gotta soften me up a little first."

I hate to say it, but I like it. I can just say that she orders me to do it – she does – and leave it at that, but I can't lie to myself. I like doing it. It makes her wet faster than anything else. The first time she told me to do it, I hesitated. This was a conflict in my programming; I didn't want to hurt her. "You won't hurt me," she said, "because I like it." Confused, I stood – indecision personified. As an incentive, she hurled insults at me – "Hey, big and ugly," she taunted, "if you ever wanna fuck this again, you'll do what I tell you." I take a step towards her, and she sneers. "Shuffler." She must have seen the muscle twitch in my face at the epithet. "Make a move you rotten zomb-" WHACK! I'd slapped her, right in the mouth. She held her hand to her face, shuddered, and looked at me, and her gaze was of pure passion, pure desire, pure _need_. Breathlessly, she whispered, "Do it again."

She steps toward me, and I ready myself for the command. "Just a couple," she says. I can't hit her as hard as I can – It'd really hurt her, no matter what she says – but I have to make sure to hit her hard enough, or she'll order me to stop, and then torture me until she gets tired of the game. Last time, she walked around the suite naked all day – not a stitch of clothing – and made me watch her. She even danced suggestively in front of the jukebox, rubbing salt in the wound.

I learned my lesson.

"I'm yours."

Those two words meant more to me than a command – now, and until we finished, she was mine. A draught of freedom, brief, but deep.

My arm was swift and strong. WHACK…WHACK!

Her eyes, half-open, drunk with desire.

I dragged her to the patio table, shoving her back into the steel grate of the tabletop. I wanted to see her eyes this time. Clear, sparkling blue – defiant and strong. Resisting little, she let me strip her bottom half, and unbuckle mine.

I shove up her t-shirt and pinch her nipple - hard. She likes that, too.

When I thrust up into her, hard, she gasps. I don't stop – she loves the pain, she savors it. Instead, I clamp my hand over her mouth – she doesn't need to be making noise. It'd piss people off, them knowing what we do. Even ghouls don't like it. I can feel her moaning against my hand, watch her eyes roll back in her head, and - _Oooooh!_ Sweet release.

When I'm done, I slap her on the hip – a little much, I know, just to see if I can get away with it. I watch the handprint appear, redden. _She's mine._ _My mark._ I smirk as I stuff myself back into my pants. She trembles and sighs, taking her brief post-orgasm rest.

She takes a shower, and then we head out to shoot.

I think she'll be one of the ones that get better. She has me, and enough caps and ammo to tide her over for a while.

She'll find herself, or redefine herself – whatever she needs to do.

Sometimes I feel guilty, knowing that it was me who changed her into something confusing, something alien to herself.

But she'll get better. She'll find purpose. I'll be here.

I'll help her.

That's what I'm programmed to do.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** If you liked this, you'll definitely like The Right Road Lost, a much longer continuation of this story, also written in gritty first-person monologues. Make sure to follow it, because it'll be updated regularly. You can find it listed on my profile. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


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